I've got a right mood on now.
It's just gone quarter past three in the morning. This is very relevant.
Mr D was composing something twatting about on the laptop from before I went to bed until, at ten to two, I asked him if he could possibly do something that doesn't entail the same fucking not-quite-a-D drone note that's penetrated through my earphones and driven me almost crazy for hours. He decided he'd come to bed instead, moaning about not being able to sleep and only having the edge of the bed to perch on in any case.
By 2.05am, he was asleep. By two thirty, he'd dragged both quilts away from me for his own personal use three times. By two forty, he'd kicked me up the arse so many times, I was wondering whether I should change my name to Len*
By five to three, he nearly shoved his big toe up there, grabbed the quilts, snatched my pillow and pissed me off enough that I decided it was decamp or smother him.
The bed in the spare room is covered with recording equipment. He knows this pisses me off, as it means I can't go and sleep in another perfectly good bed when he's dreaming, thrashing around, shouting or, as is the case tonight, pushing me near the point of manslaughter due to diminished responsibility.
So I'm downstairs, instead of in a nice, comfortable bed, laying on the fucking living room rug with a furry throw that the fucking cat thinks is his fucking mother, so he's stomping all over me, purring his adorable fucking little head off, stabbing me repeatedly with his adorable fucking murder mittens and generally being more of a tit that he is usually.
I know that when Mr D finally wakes up sometime before teatime, he will act all hurt that I've not been in bed and because I am going to tell him that he either clears off the shite on the spare room bed or he is banned from the main bedroom forever. If I don't murderise him first.
I am REALLY PISSED OFF.
*Father Ted reference for the teenagers in here